


The Road Back Home Again

by kingbooooo



Series: These Tardiest Explorers [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxious James, Dinner Parties, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love Letters, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon Fix-It, Waistcoats, an extremely creative use for a cravat, fretting over what to get your boyfriend for christmas, grumbly francis, making out on a chaise like a couple of horny teenagers, passing reference to endlessly snacking le vesconte, pining for your partner, well maybe not that creative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-18 07:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20635406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: “You have too many vests.”“Francis!” James said, adjusting the collar around his cravat while looking in the mirror.  “How you wound me!”- - -A series of short and extremely fluffy vignettes.  James rescues a kitten and frets over having to use a cane.  A series of letters is exchanged.  Francis experiences an extended bout of melancholy and James has some helpful suggestions.  Francis and James have a dinner party.  James takes a tumble on a patch of ice.  James has an unconventional use for the ledger book and a cravat.  Christmas arrives.





	1. The New Addition

“Afternoon, Francis!” James went breezing past the library, his greatcoat fully buttoned up. Francis made a noncommittal noise, barely looking up from his book. The weather had turned cold with the season, rainy and damp. He could hear James fussing over something down the hall. He should enquire. James had all sorts of ideas about how the house should be run, springing them on Francis unexpectedly. The problem was, Francis thought glumly, that enough of the time, he was pleased with James’ additions, just sufficient enough to encourage him on.

James bustled back in. He had something in his arms. Dark, furry, two small pointed ears.

“James, what in God’s green earth is that?”

“It’s a kitten.”

“No. No. No, no, no, no-”

James stepped forward, depositing the thing in Francis’ lap even as he tried to shrink into the chair. It looked up and mewed, loudly.

“James.”

“Yes, Francis?” He was grinning. The cheek on this one.

“This is not a kitten. This is a sentient inkblot. And we are not keeping it.” The kitten mewed again.

James leaned over, resting his weight against the arm of the chair, reaching down with his other hand to pet the kitten.

“Not an it. It’s a girl. And we are. We’ve been getting mice in the pantry. Anyway, I saw her out in the street and she was so cold and wet and thin and I knew I couldn’t leave her out there. You cannot blame me for wanting to help such a miserable, piteous creature, could you?”

Francis knew the danger of looking up at James, and yet he did it anyway. James’ eyes were soft, soft and lovely. Naturally, James would rescue a kitten.

He looked back down. It, no, she was all black, with large green eyes, all fluff, weighing practically nothing. He reached out a finger, running it down her side.

“Very soft,” Francis said.

The kitten rubbed against his hand, purring, before turning to bite his thumb. James laughed.

“And pointy,” James said.

“I’ve noticed.”

“So we’re keeping her.”

Francis grumbled. He did not want a pet, especially one that bit, but he also did not want mice in the larder. It seemed they were at an impasse.

“Come here, little one.” James scooped the kitten up, who gave a small yowl. “Let’s show you to your quarters.”

Francis was deeply unamused. This was too far. A kitten! Which would, naturally, become a cat. He started mentally preparing how to find a new home for this…thing.

\- - -

James peeked into the library. He’d left Francis alone after dinner to let him get used to the idea of the new addition. She’d scampered off somewhere, and with her coloring, it was difficult to find her again.

If Francis had his way, nothing would change. Well, very little. James felt he was often prodding Francis to try new things. He could be so stubborn. 

He didn’t feel bad in the slightest about lying to Francis about the existence of mice. It had been raining, hard, when he’d heard her, making the saddest noises and blinking into the downpour. Was he expected to simply walk by as everyone else had? James would have to put his foot down. She was staying, and that would be that.

Francis had fallen asleep, his head resting against the back of the chair. James stepping closer. The kitten was curled on his shoulder, grooming Francis’ hair.

\- - -

“Ouch!”

The kitten had pounced on James’ bare foot, which was slung over the covers on the bed.

“Ah, the inkblot strikes again,” Francis said, looking over the top of the newspaper at James, who was moving his other foot under the blanket, the kitten rearing up and attacking the moving target with vigor.

“What a good mouser you are! What a cunning little hunter!” James’ face was full of delight, his eyes merry as the kitten savaged the blanket. He laughed, leaning into Francis. “I am so taken with her.”

“Suppose it’s too late to ask about who else could use a cat,” Francis said. The kitten was now batting the edge of his paper.

“Oh Francis! It’s been a week.”

Francis looked up. The kitten had scurried off. 

“Where did she get off to?” Francis had no wish to accidentally trod on her, as he’d done yesterday, or get his ankles attacked, as had happened the day before that. He did not tell James that at least once, he’d awakened from a nap to find her curled on his lap, warm and purring, and he was certainly not going to tell James that he’d let her stay there. James did not need any more encouragement.

“She has a name, you know.” James smiled at Francis.

“Yes. And it’s The Inkblot.”

“Inkblot?”

“_The_ Inkblot. You found her, seems only fair that I get to name her. What were you going to call her?” Francis asked.

“I was thinking Sophia.”

“You are a wicked man, James Fitzjames.”

James laughed again. “Have we reached an accord about the fate of our dear furry friend?” Francis rolled his eyes, knowing that this was a battle he’d lost the moment James saw the kitten. James’ smiling face changed to a rictus of pain.

“Ouch! You little-”

The Inkblot was biting his toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a character called The Aged in Great Expectations, and although this is a kitten and not an aging parent, I love the naming convention. Francis also makes two inkblots on his stationery in The Ladder when he's starting to write his resignation letter to Franklin.


	2. The Cane

“A cane? A cane. Christ. I’m not that old.” James sank dramatically into the chaise. He’d been to see a doctor earlier that day, some residual weakness in his leg from their ill-fated voyage rearing its head.

“Best walker in the service?” Francis said, smiling.

“Don’t. Please.”

Francis looked over. This concession was taking a toll on James, his face, for a moment, a slightly broken sadness before it was gone.

“It’s not fair. I’m at least ten years younger than you and I’m going to have start using a, a, a cane. Like an invalid.”

“Oh James. Budge up.” Francis sat next to him, pulling James’ long legs across his lap.

“What?” James sighed, rolling his eyes. “I dislike that it still matters after all this, but I do care, somewhat, about how others see me.” Francis paused. It wasn’t others’ perceptions James was worried about, he was most certain, but rather Francis’.

Francis could see how it weighed on James, how it must have weighed on his as a young man, the need to be the very image of strapping masculinity in the face of enemies, both human and natural. Aging was one thing. James had borne that part well. This, though, was another blow, different in scope and volume.

“Do you think less of me? An old man with a cane?”

Normally, Francis would have relished the chance to tease James, who could return the volley with a practiced ease. Not about this, though, with such raw hurt present.

“Never.”

“Will you still…” James rubbed at his eyes. “Will you still care for me when I’m old and grey and can’t walk at all?”

“I seem to recall a time not so long ago when you couldn’t walk. I cared for you then. Suspect it won’t be much different, although I daresay the scenery will be a touch better.” He squeezed James’ knee. “Now will you tell me what this is truly about?”

James rubbed at his eye again, looking away.

“Don’t want you to think I’m, lord, it sounds ridiculous, that I’m taking advantage of your benevolence.”

Understanding, unhappily, washed over Francis. Bad enough that James continued to punish himself for the circumstances of his birth, but worse, he’d come to view such relationships as transactional in nature, keeping a mental tally as to what was owed and to whom.

Francis shook his head. Unlikely that he’d ever be able to break James entirely of that way of thinking, just as Francis’ habits, those strange roads his mind chose to go down were worn very, very deep. Poor James.

“Never. Handsome, dashing, brave, perhaps the smallest amount overinvested in his wardrobe, and mine, entirely.” Francis reached towards him, running a finger over the silver waistcoat buttons. James smiled weakly. Francis’ arm slid around him, pulling him in closer.

“Sometimes I wonder if there was even the smallest chance for me,” Francis said quietly, a thumb on James’ jaw.

“Chance for what?” James’ voice was barely above a whisper.

“A chance that I wouldn’t fall madly, desperately in love with you.”

James’ breath hitched in his chest, his eyes very damp.

“Oh, please don’t cry, I didn’t mean-” 

“No, Francis.” James tilted his head slightly, kissing Francis. “You’ve no idea the effect you have on me.”

“Some, I guess.” Francis wiped a tear from James’ cheek. “Think how elegant you’ll look with a walking stick. You could get something fancy. Mother-of-pearl. Silver, to match your hair.” Francis tugged at James’ locks, silver threads among the dark. “Gold. Could get one for every day of the week.”

He bent in, kissing James, tightening his grasp around him with one hand, cupping James’ face with the other. James untensed into Francis, only encouraging him on, Francis kissing him over and over. James kissed him back, slowly opening his lips, that hot slickness welcoming Francis in.

James’ arms were about Francis, holding him steady, one hand slipping up to Francis’ neck, the fingers cool as they inched into his hair. A gasp escaped Francis. The things he had done, the things he would do to James flitted through his head, each more lurid. For now, this would sate him, James the one to finally end it, burrowing his face into Francis’ shoulder.

“You will look very handsome indeed with a cane,” Francis said, his voice rough. “Like a veteran of some far-off war.”

“And I can hit you with it when you’re being grouchy.”

Francis laughed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Kiss me again, you violent madman.”

“Violent?” James grazed Francis’ temple with his lips. “Violent.” He kissed the top part of Francis’ ear. “Violent…madman.” A warm mouth touched each of Francis’ closed eyelids. “How novel.” His lips returned to Francis’, not quite touching. “Should we go upstairs?”

“Rather stay here, if you don’t mind terribly. I’m enjoying this.” Francis leaned in slightly, his lips brushing James’.

“If you insist,” James said softly. “But I must warn you. I will be a most terrible distraction from anything else you wish to do this afternoon.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Not much else was accomplished the rest of the day, although Captain Francis Crozier did note a particularly sore jaw the following morning.


	3. Letters

The letters started as a bit of a lark. James was required out of town for a few days, settling up the estate of a very distant relative.

“It will be exceedingly boring,” he said to Francis. “I’ll be telling them all the stories you’ve heard before.”

“I like your stories,” Francis said. “I shall miss you, though.”

Francis found the letter in his desk, tucked under a blotter. He smiled as his fingers opened the folded cream-coloured stationery. 

_ Dearest,_

_ I shall think of you daily. Hourly. Perhaps not by the minute, but nearly. How I treasure the steady, happy life I live with you, this unexpected path that brought us here. I am too old for adventures except for the ones you create with me._

_ Be charitable to The Inkblot. I will know if you aren’t._

_ Yours, everlasting,_

_ -J.F._

Francis smiled, rereading the letter, The Inkblot climbing into his lap.

“I’d never be uncharitable to you,” he said. He pulled out a blank sheet of paper, readying his quill.

\- - -

Francis was outside, readying the garden for winter. “Bulbs,” he’d said, carrying out a large crate full of what looked like bad imitations of onions.

“Oh. Here.” He pressed a folded paper into James’ hand on his way outside.

_ Reader,_

_ I have an amusing incident to relate. A very pleasing man I know, let us call him Jimmy. It happened that he was asleep next to me. Don’t trouble yourself with the details of the circumstances._

_ Jimmy is rather fond of stories of his adventures, numerous that they are. Well, I could hardly believe my ears when, while asleep, he began to speak. But it was no tale of wanting to walk across Asia, or other derring-do._

_ It was what he had for breakfast. And I know what it was because I made it for him._

_ Reader, I was most charmed. I think I will see if he wishes to record this. For posterity. He is so very lovely when he is asleep. If he is amenable, I think I will keep him._

_ -F_

“I do no such thing!” James said loudly.

“You do,” Francis said, returning inside. “And it’s certainly preferable to what you say when you’re having a nightmare. I’d much rather hear you debate the merits of marmalade versus jam than yell about those godforsaken ships.”

James caught Francis by his shirt collar, catching him in a desperate kiss.

“Write me again?” Francis asked, his face rosy.

James kissed him again, shooing Francis back out before he could dirty James’ shirt.

\- - -

_How could someone who was so fastidious about their appearance be so untidy?_ Francis thought with irritation. James’ clothes were everywhere. He’d been trying on various outfits for, God, what was it? Tea? Tea with someone. And he’d neglected to put anything back. The end of the bed was nothing but discarded waistcoats.

“James, this would not do if you were captain. Surely it did not do when you were a commander.”

“Ah, but I’m not one any longer, and likely never will be.”

“You have too many vests.”

“Francis!” James said, adjusting the collar around his cravat while looking in the mirror. “How you wound me!”

“And you are deeply untidy. Good God, how do you find anything? If I find another blasted shirtsleeve behind the bed-” Francis could feel he was losing his temper.

“Oh you grump. I’ll put everything away when I return. Here. I saved it for when you were in a mood.” A letter emerged from James’ vest.

“I am not in a mood!”

“Of course not.” James gave Francis an awkward kiss to the cheek as he left the room, grabbing the cane as well.

_ Francis,_

_ Before you fully lose your temper over one of my many personal failings, I would like to remind you that you keep tracking dirt in from the garden. Now you’re exceedingly irritated, because you know I’m correct._

_ Francis, how I thought I lived before I met you was not living. It was only a pantomime of it, a half-life among the shadows. To live now is to live in sunlight with a heart full enough to bursting. May we all be so lucky in our short lives._

_ Always within your heart, as you are in mine,  
_

_-J.F._

Damn him. Didn’t recall ever giving James such permission. The nerve.

\- - -

James was late getting home, Francis waiting up instead of turning in early.

“Did you miss me?” James smiled, tiredness emphasizing the lines in his face.

“Didn’t miss putting your trousers away.”

“Still cranky.” James toed his boots off, slipping out of his coat and loosening his cravat.

“Here.” Francis held up a small folded note, focusing on his book, James snatching it up, unfolding it with his back to Francis.

“Dearest James,” he started.

“No, don’t read it aloud!”

“So imperious.” James flopped down on the bed, facing Francis, the note held in front of him like a treasure.

_ Dearest James,_

_ How dull and solitary, how uninteresting my life would be without you. The weather will soon be cold, but you are the only warmth I need. _

_I seem to find much joy in the mundane, so long as you are a part of it. Where my path goes, I can only fathom, but so long as I am not alone, I welcome the road ahead._

_I love you, and I adore you._

_Yours in all things,_

_-F_

“Oh,” James said quietly. Francis fixed his gaze on the typed words in his book.

“Oh,” James repeated, Francis finally looking up. James was smiling, but his eyes were something else entirely, a safe harbor in a storm, the promise of hope from danger.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you,” Francis said, looking back at his book.

“Molder up in this home until you turned to dust. Or salt.” James crawled into Francis’ lap as Francis raised his arms up to make room, resting them again on James’ back once he’d settled.

“You’re a cruel one, James.”

“Mmmm.” James’ voice was muffled against Francis’ night shirt. “Grouch.”

“Minx.”

“Would you wish me any different?” James looked up.

Francis leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

“No. Not a single change.”

“Good. I have a new story to tell you.” James smiled slyly. “You remember our mutual friend Sir James Ross? Well it seems his cousin…”


	4. A Touch of Melancholia

To anyone else, it might just appear to be the typical melancholy that often accompanied sailors away from the sea for any extended period. To James, though, he saw the small signs, signs that only one who lived with another would note, signs that Francis was in a low place indeed. Food was picked at, not eaten, sleep spotty in the evenings. Francis’ smile never quite reached his eyes, and his attentions to James were less frequent.

“You’ll hate me for this now,” James announced one morning, spurred to action, seizing the sheets and pulling them back, “but you’ll thank me later.” Francis had returned to bed after breakfast, most unlike him.

“James!” Francis’ body shrunk as cold air hit bare skin. “What are you-”

“We are taking a morning constitutional.”

“Don’t wish to.” Francis dressed slowly.

“But I do. I’ve been ordered to walk more, for my leg, and I would like your company.”

Francis grumbled the whole way to the door and out. The weather was clear and cold, both of them bundled up in heavy winter coats and hats.

“I don’t think you are requiring this much support,” Francis said. James had the cane, leaning on Francis as well.

“The cold bothers my joints.” That part was true, but James wanted Francis to feel needed. He’d had too much of a career being told he’d never be enough, no matter how much he demonstrated his capableness. He was enough, more than enough for James, and it was breaking James’ heart to see Francis, with his constant depth of warmth under that cantankerous façade, falter in his mood.

The walk to the park was short, a bench the perfect place for respite. James looked over at Francis, the chill causing a fresh ruddiness in his cheeks, extremely becoming, James thought.

“You’ve not been yourself,” James said evenly, expecting some sharp rebuke.

Francis sighed. “No, I’ve not. I was hoping it would pass quickly. The winter months, though, they seem to make it worse. I have no desire to worry you.”

James squeezed his arm. “Oh, I worry about you constantly, Francis. Supposed it’s because I’m so enamoured of you, but it also seems to be my foundation, one of worry and fits.”

“Am I the cause of this?” Francis’ face shifted to one of gentle concern.

“No, no. In fact, you’re the reassurance. It’s such insignificant things, Francis. Mostly it is way you look at me when you think I don’t see.” He smiled. “Now. What are we going to do about you?”

Francis reddened, not from the cold.

“It’ll pass. It always does.”

“Mmm. That wasn’t my question.” The chill air stung James’ face. “I’ve some ideas. You’ll go on my walks with me. In case I take a stumble. No more long lie-ins. And if you need anyone to remind you of all your finer qualities, I shall. Every day. It will be a struggle-” he felt, more than heard Francis huff as though waiting for a joke at his expense, “to parse the list to something manageable, but I will soldier on. Oh. And you need to try to eat more. Tea is not a meal. Now let’s go home.”

Francis was quiet during the return walk.

“Thank you, James,” he said, taking James’ coat and hat. “Although, ‘tea is not a meal’ might be the most un-English thing you have ever uttered.”

“Go on, you cad. I’m sure The Inkblot’s been missing your lap. And don’t thank me just yet. We’re going to a play next week.” Francis grimaced. “Full dress uniforms.”

\- - -

Francis made generally displeased noises the whole evening.

“You haven’t even seen the play,” James said as Francis helped him into the carriage. “It’s supposed to be quite amusing. A lot of ribald jokes. Very scandalous. Come on now, try to enjoy this, even if you are steadfastly dedicated to disliking novelties.”

Francis frowned, spending the ride fidgeting with his uniform. James put a hand on Francis’ thigh, less an overture than a calming presence, leaning over so that his lips were just below Francis’ ear.

“You look most handsome tonight, Captain Crozier. Anyone would be honored to have you on their arm. I wonder if that person knows how lucky he is.” He stole a quick kiss as the carriage pulled up. They were almost to the box and a bit of privacy, when James spotted Ross, Sir James Ross and his wife.

“Francis! James!” Ross was parting the crowd. “This is new,” he said, spotting the cane.

“Good thing I’ve got Francis along to help when my knee starts to give out.”

“Yes, good thing.” Ross smiled wryly, exchanging a glance with his wife.

“I would love to call on you one afternoon,” Ann spoke up. “James, my James, keeps going on about the roses and I’ve been having difficulty with our garden.”

“Well, the bushes have all died back, so there’s not much to see, but…” Francs trailed off. James gave him a slight elbowing. “We would, ah, that is to say, I would be happy to see you.” She beamed at Francis.

“Lovely to see you, but we do need to find our seats. My leg tires easily,” James said smoothly.

“What on earth possessed you, James? Another visitor?” Francis was frowning again as they sat in their box for two.

“Ann is a delightful woman. Someone else should come see the garden. It’s not good for either of us to stay cooped up.”

“What about Le Vesconte? I hear he’s in town.”

“Dundy? Hmm.” James furrowed his brow. “He is good cheer, but last time I saw him, he ate up all the biscuits before I could have even one. Man must have the metabolism of a shrew. We could invite him. Just hide anything that could be construed as an hors d’ouevres beforehand lest he abscond with them.” He looked over, pleased at having earned a grin from Francis.

The play was entertaining, the jokes extremely funny. James, however, spent the majority of the time watching Francis watch the play, his heart filling with each laugh and smile.

“I trust you not to deceive me,” he said, leaning into Francis on the ride home. “And my feelings will not be hurt if you didn’t, but did you enjoy the play?”

“I did.”

“Mmm.” James nuzzled into Francis’ neck, running a gloved finger along where the collar pressed into the underside of his jaw. James cherished the way Francis looked in uniform, but not as much as he loved him out of it. He felt the sigh escape Francis. James’ lips replaced the finger, his tongue slipping out to taste bare skin.

“James.” Francis’ voice was a whisper, laced with warning and heat. James responded, his teeth along Francis’ ear, a hand on his knee, trailing up the thigh.

“Want you,” James mumbled, “and if I thought we wouldn’t get caught, I’d let you have me in this carriage.”

“You’re not good at staying quiet,” Francis said, grabbing James’ free hand, tugging the glove off with his teeth.

“Neither are you, and you’re going to ruin my gloves if you do that…” he trailed off as Francis took the tip of James’ index finger into his mouth, biting gingerly, his tongue hot and soft on the pad, lips pursed around it, the sensations bypassing James’ brain entirely and going straight down. All these many months, and the years up north, and Francis still failed to disappoint in his newness.

James brought his hand down, cupping Francis’ jaw as he drew him into a kiss, as passionate as he dared in the carriage, lips colliding, Francis emitting a low, hungry noise into his mouth. They broke away as the carriage jerked to a stop, James grinning and Francis laughing hoarsely. 

“Am I presentable?” James asked.

“Mostly. Am I?”

James brushed Francis’ hair back into place, as though he wouldn’t be mussing it back up the moment they got inside, which was precisely what he did, Francis roughly pushing James up against the latched door.

“Not here, like some dockside molly,” James gasped out, as Francis had begun focusing his attention on James’ neck. If they weren’t careful, James would finish right there, rutting against Francis’ thigh, squirming to find the friction.

“After you, sir.” Francis bit lightly on the edge of James’ jaw before releasing him, a trail of dress blues along the stairs following them as they stopped every few steps to kiss and nuzzle and fumble over buttons and fasteners and braces and boots. The cane lay forgotten on the landing.

“Need you,” Francis got out.

“Need you too.” James pulled Francis down onto him, legs tangling. The air seemed thicker as Francis’ bulk pressed him into the sheets, James’ hands running down every part of bare skin that he could reach. He pulled Francis’ head down to his, lips fitting against lips, Francis’ need obvious, their movements slow and soft and methodical and utterly, utterly maddening.

What was his favorite part of Francis? There was the obvious answer, his impressive prick. His legs, thick and muscular. James did love running his hands down Francis’ backside to his knees, feeling the tendons under that blond hair. The broad back, spangled in freckles. His shoulders. His hands, sturdy and deft. His forearms, Francis inadvertently showing them off whenever he pushed his sleeves up.

No. It was his eyes, arrestingly blue and bottomless, every emotion one could experience within them. Just now, they were fire and magic and danger.

“Please,” he found himself pleading. “Please, Francis. I’ll do anything you wish so long as you-”

Francis obliged, rolling James to his front, straddling his thighs. James sank down into the covers, sighing. Above him, Francis shifted, a knee pressing James’ legs open. He could hear the sound of a bottle being unstopped, one hand kneading the back of his thigh as the other traced up, a finger, cool and slick pressing into him. James tensed and relaxed, groaning quietly as one finger became two, his cock hardening uncomfortably where it was pressed into the sheets.

“You like this? Truly?” Francis’ voice had a note of curiosity.

“We can discuss the merits of sodomy later, Francis, but, oh God.” Francis had crooked his fingers. “Yes, Francis, I like it very much.” He looked over one shoulder, Francis smiling, that eyebrow quite high.

“On your back,” he ordered.

James smiled, turning back over. He knew Francis would revel in the sight, James’ prick fully aroused, spreading his legs so Francis could see everything. Francis was hard, his cock leaking under James’ fingers as Francis moved forward, James guiding him down, lower, pressing into him.

“Christ.” James exhaled. It was that first push, tight, harsh, even with Francis pacing himself, a slow roll of the hips.

“Want to look at you, James.” Francis was down on his elbows, James’ cock trapped with only a bit of friction, Francis setting a measured rhythm, each thrust earning a low gasp. It was slow, excruciatingly, James having nowhere to look but up at Francis, their bodies neatly joining as heat coiled in his belly. “Only you.”

“Should hope so- Oh fuck, Francis.” James’ legs weren’t working terribly well, feeling as though he was somewhere very high up from sea level. Francis rewarded him with a snap of his hips, James’ head falling back.

James put a hand on Francis’ chest, pushing him up. “I want to see how far down that flush goes, and,” Francis had bucked into him, “need more attention here.” James’ hand was tugging against his cock, trying to time it with Francis’ thrusts.

Close, so close, both of them had to be, though Francis had the stamina of a younger man. Another unfairness, James thought fleetingly, as Francis’ hand joined him, the other tight around James’ thigh for purchase.

He only had the barest warning, his thigh tensing involuntarily as James’ need, stretched taut, snapped, a loud “Francis!” escaping his lips, his back arching up from the bed, his need spurting across his chest and their hands. Francis followed close behind, bucking into him with unfocused strokes, fingers curling nearly painfully into him as Francis pulled out and spent himself on James’ thighs.

“F-forgot how enjoyable this is,” Francis said faintly, collapsing on the bed next to him.

James laughed, propping himself up on his elbows, reaching for something, anything to wipe his stomach. “I should be insulted. No lover of James Fitzjames ever forgets a tumble with him.”

“I must have upset you acutely for you to speak of yourself in third person. Sheets are going to be a mess.”

“Burn the sheets. I intend to ruin you for all other men.” James should wash, but he rather liked the way his skin stuck to Francis’ where their legs overlapped. “Have you gotten at least a modicum of enjoyment this evening? I don’t know if it’s possible to fuck one’s way out of melancholy, but by God, I’d like to try. Perhaps get written up in a medical treatise.”

Francis laughed, a full deep laugh that James felt down to his toes.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said.

“It’s good to have something to laugh about.” Francis leaned over to kiss James’ forehead.

The next morning, although quite grumbly, Francis was the first to rise.


	5. The Dinner Party

James was a perfectly good cook. Very good, in fact, Francis reflected. He hadn’t had a bad meal since he’d relinquished the kitchen and most of its trappings to James.

“Ross called on us yesterday when you were out,” Francis said over morning tea. James smiled. Even with the two Jameses, Ross only merited a last name. “He, ah, well, I proposed having him and his wife over for dinner next week.”

James gave a slightly choked cough.

“A dinner? Francis. I don’t know that I can. And, more people, Ross’ wife.” James paused, clearing his throat several times.

“Do you think we’re the only ones in such a situation? As though Ross doesn’t share everything with Ann. They as good as told me yesterday. They’re not stupid. Besides,” Francis took a sip of tea. “Weren’t you the one who said we would grow dull and dusty without visitors? You wanted me to invite Ann over. And there’s not nearly enough for a scandal as neither of us has much use for fame these days.”

Still, James fretted. 

“I don’t know what to serve them.” James bent over a cookbook, his brows knitted. Francis leaned over him, resting a head on his shoulder.

“Don’t think the food is really the point, is it? The company is, I think. But I never cared much for dinner parties. All the dull conversations about utterly banal topics.”

“You’d’ve rather talked of sails and knots and adventures.”

“Rather not talk at all. I tended to get through them by drinking,” Francis said. “How interesting it will be to go through one of these with a clear head.”

“Yes. Interesting. So good of you to try new things,” James said, his voice slightly more biting than Francis thought he had intended.

“Don’t be sore.” Francis slid an arm around James’ waist. “I’ll help. I’m good at pastries. And you’re an excellent cook, James. The Rosses are not expecting a feast fit for royalty, just good food and serviceable wine.” He felt James untense a fraction. Encouraged, he bent in, his nose parting James’ hair, inhaling.

“You smell delicious,” he murmured.

Very little else in preparation for the dinner party was done that afternoon.

\- - -

James picked out a pie with a sweet filling, pumpkin. “I want to try it myself,” he’d said, pointing out the recipe to Francis.

Francis left James alone in the kitchen, busying himself with the table settings. He hadn’t had guests, or a formal dinner since…God, was it those terrible wardroom dinners on Terror? The memory was more bitter than sweet, James nothing but bravado, Francis nothing but booze. He’d been rather mean to James, hadn’t he?

The kitchen had gone quiet, the silence punctuated by a string of curse words, most unlike James.

Francis found him leaning on the counter, a smear of flour across his forehead, his apron dusted with more.

“The crust, Francis. The bloody crust, it won’t stick, I was trying to make it look nice, and now.” He shrugged helplessly. 

Francis inspected the countertop. “Were you trying to do a lattice?”

James nodded dumbly. Francis smiled, washing and wiping his hands off. He hated to admit that he was a touch jealous of James’ confidence and impetuousness, but not when, as here, James become overwhelmed, a bit too far afield.

“Flew too close to the sun, James. Thank goodness you only came crashing down onto pie filling. Sit.”

James pulled up a chair, Francis standing behind him, resting his head on James’. 

“Don’t overhandle the crust. It’ll make it tough.” Francis peeled back the very uneven strips of pie crust across the top of the filling. “We can make a nice crimped edge.” He took one of James’ hands, directing it to the edge of the pie tin. “Pinch the crust like so.”

“I touched the crust a lot. It’s ruined.” James gave a slightly shuddering sigh. 

“It will be fine. Just remember it for next time.” Francis’ larger hands over James’ long, slender fingers guided him along the edge. “Lattice is a very nice flourish, but it’s a parlour trick. The pie should stand on its own first.” The crust was near done. “Like you do.”

James tilted his head up. Francis seized the opportunity, leaning down to kiss him, James tasting of flour and pie crust.

“Thank you, Francis.”

He gave James’ shoulders a squeeze before turning back to look over the rest of the meal. Everything looked exemplar, and smelled even better. A large pot was set to boiling, curiosity getting the better of him.

“James.”

“What?”

“The soup. It’s…blue.” The soup was a lovely cerulean shade, most un-souplike.

James swore again, wiping at his face.

“I ran out of twine to tie the chicken, so I used the string you use for your garden.” Francis knew which one he was referring to, the blue string. Bright blue.

“The whole dinner is ruined.” James looked crestfallen after peeking at the offending soup.

“It’s…” Francis started to laugh.

“It’s not funny!”

“You must admit it’s a little funny, James. You’ve made,” he laughed again. “Blue soup.” He reached for a spoon. “Tastes…very good, dear. It’s just visually a bit surprising.” 

He looked over at James, surprised to find him biting in a slightly trembling lower lip.

“Oh James, you sweet man. Dinner will be fine. It will be more than fine. If I’d known how this would have affected your nerves, I would have just invited them for tea again. I am sorry. I thought I was being adventurous, like you.” Francis drew James in, holding out the spoon for James to taste. “This could be the start of a new story. ‘There I was, asked to prepare a feast for the Queen of Siam, and the only rope I had was the one I’d used to belay myself singlehandedly down the most treacherous peaks in the Himalayas.’”

James took a taste, his face relaxing.

“Are you suggesting that I embellished my tales of valor? Where is your sense of wonder, Francis, your willingness to suspend the slightest amount of disbelief? How cruel a fate that I find myself attached to the most skeptical and practical of men.” He paused, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “It does taste good,” James conceded, hooking his chin on Francis’ shoulder, his hand coming to rest on Francis’ hip. He sighed. “And I suppose it is a little amusing.”

“Tell Ross it’s a delicacy from China.” Francis suggested.

“He’ll know.”

“Yes, but he’s too polite to say so. Still a proper Navy man.”

“Hrmph.” James frowned again. “And your impression of me leaves much to be desired. I do not sound that pompous.”

Despite James’ worry, the dinner went smoothly. Francis found that the dinner party, as a concept, was much more enjoyable than he’d remembered any in the past, aided by his sobriety and James’ warm hand on his knee under the dinner table. God bless it, Ross and Ann’s eyebrows did not go quite into their hairlines when the soup was served.

“Was…was it meant to be that colour?” Ross asked quietly. They’d gone through to the library. 

“What do you think? Don’t mention it to James,” Francis replied, looking over his shoulder. Ann had The Inkblot in her lap, James showing her how to tease the kitten with a scrap of fabric tied to the end of a stick, both of them laughing when the cat misjudged the distance and tumbled to the floor.

“Thought it was a novelty.” Ross grinned. “Dinner was excellent.” His face turned slightly more serious. “You are in good spirits? With Fitzjames.”

“I am. What is it?”

“Nothing. I, ah, saw Ms. Cracroft the other day. My mind wandered to a life that could have been. Idle thoughts.”

Francis shook his head.

“Idle thoughts indeed. She would not have been happy with me, and it in turn would have made me unhappy with her. Truly. I bear her no ill will. Ross, I’ll never know what good fortune brought us back, but I am grateful for it, every day, for bringing him here, and for, well, one does not normally speak of such things, but for unstopping this clogged and bitter heart of mine. My life is full of small joys. I’m not sure what more I could ask for.”

Ross was grinning.

“It is good to see you like this. Now, will Fitzjames be terribly put out if I ask him for the recipe?”

\- - -

Exhausted, Francis sank into the chaise. Ross and Ann had stayed another hour, playing cards and having dessert before leaving. He closed his eyes.

He felt James drape himself across him, a head tucked under his chin. An odd bad passing thought popped into Francis’ head, one of many that chose to appear at the most inopportune and unwelcome of times.

“James, I’m not a young man anymore. You should not be wasting your time or affections on a taciturn, unsightly failure.”

“Shhhh. I’ll not inquire as the reason for such an absurd statement, but no matter. You are tired, not the time to be making sweeping declarations about perceived shortcomings. Besides,” James sat up, waiting for Francis to open his eyes. “I adore you fiercely. And you are handsome.”

“Am not. My teeth-”

“Are delightful.”

“My face.”

“Craggy and rugged, as a captain’s should be.”

“My hair.”

“As radiant as the sun,” James said. “Shall I go on? Because otherwise, I’d like you to fuck me senseless.”

Francis grinned. “James, language. The Inkblot will hear. She is at an impressionable age.”

James smiled evilly. “In that case.” He dropped his voice lower, near a whisper. “Francis, if you don’t take me upstairs this very instant, I’m going to tie you to the bedposts one morning and try on every piece of clothing I own, one at a time, until you beg for mercy. And I’ll leave them all over the floor-”

Francis was already pulling James out the library and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I absolutely took the idea of blue soup from Bridget Jones's Diary although James' dinner and dessert come out much better than poor Bridget's.


	6. Winter Hazards

The leg continued to bother him, the cold weather turning his joints stiff and achy. James was still dedicated to his morning constitutionals, noting Francis’ improved mood. Still, it wasn’t the leg’s fault, it was his for not noticing the slick frosty spot on the ground. If Francis hadn’t been there it would have been much worse, but as it was, James went, as Francis later described, ass over teakettle, nearly dragging poor Francis down with him.

James cried out, gritting his teeth. His knee, he’d landed right on it, pain shooting up his leg.

“James! James, are you, is anything broken?” Francis was propping him back up.

“Hurts.” James put weight on it gingerly. “I think it’s not broken.” He felt tears creeping out, sucking in a breath in pain.

“Put your arm around my shoulder.” Somehow they made it back, the pain ebbing slightly, lancing any time he took a step on that leg, wobbling dangerously. Francis practically carried him up the steps.

It was a side he hadn’t seen of Francis, worried and fretful, usually James’ domain. His trousers and boots lay discarded off to the side, Francis poking and prodding at his knee.

“Sprain, most like. I can wrap it up, send for a doctor.”

“Please no doctors, Francis. They’re too dear, I’ve already spent much on that one to tell me I needed a cane and walks, and I’ve no wish to bring anyone else within our confidences. Please.” He ducked his head. “I do not like doctors. Spent far too much time with them after the return trip.”

Francis frowned. 

“All right. I’ll wrap the leg. I’ve got some ointment, no idea how well it will do with a sprain, but if there’s no improvement, there will be a doctor, and that’s final.”

“Francis, you do make an excellent nursemaid,” James said, only half-joking. He’d done an admirable job with the leg, compression and elevation, and he’d come up with a tray of food and a book at dinner.

“I’ve had practice.” Francis smiled gently over the top of the book. “You’ll be getting up and walking about tomorrow. I’ve no wish to wheel you about in a chair.”

“Bet you’d love that,” James responded, a flip comment intended to deflect any more discussion of doctors or canes or chairs with wheels.

Francis closed the book.

“I wouldn’t. It would make me very unhappy, James.”

That was his nightmare, becoming a complete invalid, like he was, back, back when-

“Me as well,” he whispered.

Francis’ face, concern layered under that look, so nearly imperceptible, respect, and love and admiration. 

“If I am required to carry you around on my back, I will,” Francis said later as he drew James’ form to him in bed.

“We could sell tickets,” James murmured. “Buy me every walking stick I could ever want.”

Francis was quiet. James thought he’d drifted off.

“I just wish to be wherever you are James, and if it meant toting you from place to place, I would.” 

For a moment, it was enough for James to forget his throbbing knee.

\- - -

The walk was just down to the next street and back, James’ leg stiff and sore, but able to bear some weight without buckling beneath him. Francis insisted that James return to bed after, fussing over his knee.

“I’m not made of glass, Francis.”

“I know you’re not, but you must understand that, well.” Francis had finished rewrapping the knee, tucking the ends underneath the bandage before he focused his attention on the pillows underneath, propping James’ leg up.

_Of course._

“This isn’t like the expedition,” James said quietly. His hand found Francis’, squeezing it once. Francis looked up with softly wounded eyes. “Someday I will grow old and die, but I do not intend to do so for many years.”

“Won’t you let me take care of you?” Francis asked. “I only hope that we will be able to grow old together.”

James felt tears well in his eyes. He disliked intensely the idea of being fussed over. And yet. He cleared his throat several times before speaking.

“So long as you stop treating me as though I am some sugary confection that will melt if left out in the rain.”

Francis nodded, curling up next to James, book in hand, absentmindedly running his fingers along the inside of James’ bandaged leg. James tried to focus his attentions elsewhere, as though Francis did not know exactly what effect he was having on him.

“Have I told you how rakish you look with your walking stick?” Francis’ voice was even, but when James looked down, he had a glint in his eye.

“That thing?” James pointed an accusatory finger at the cane where it was propped by the door.

Francis’ hand traveled up right above where the bandages ended, tracing bare skin along James’ thigh, his body responding before James could say anything.

“Francis you’ve done more than enough.”

“But I want to. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you? Not every day I get such an opportunity, with you bedridden.”

“I am _not_ bedridden. And you have ample opportunity. You’re just greedy.” James could hardly hide the amusement in his voice.

Francis paused his hand, resting just below where James’ erection was straining against the fabric, the book set aside and forgotten.

“I didn’t say stop, you infuriating man.”

Francis pushed James’ legs apart, careful of the bandaged one, settling down in between them, his fingers tugging James’ smallclothes down. He looked up, using one hand to loosen his cravat, pulling it off by one end and tossing it over one shoulder with a flourish, grinning, one eyebrow, that damned eyebrow, arched high.

James shook his head, laughing, his laughter melting into a sigh as Francis’ fingers, warm and rough wrapped around him, stroking him to fullness, the fingers replaced by a mouth. James gripped the blanket with one hand, his hips shifting, trying to find a better spot, need pooling low in his belly.

His other hand threaded through Francis’ hair, brushing it back so James could admire him at work. 

“You are rather good at this,” he murmured.

Francis drew back. “Should think so, I’ve had a lot of practice.” He smiled again, his lips ruddy from use, a striking color against his pale face. “Think I can…” He bent forward again, his lips around James’ cock, down, down, down until James felt himself against somewhere very far in Francis.

“Oh God,” he groaned, Francis drawing back and advancing again. The need only grew, spiking out, down his legs, his head feeling fuzzy and hot. Francis increasing his pace, humming into him. James’ hand flexed and unflexed uselessly against the bed, his back arching, hips bucking up to meet Francis’ mouth, sweltering heat all around his cock.

Francis shook his head, his hands pinning James’ hips in place, leaning his weight onto him, holding him down before resuming his ministration.

“That’s it, James. I’d see you finish,” he said, his lips obscenely wet and rosy as he took James back into his mouth.

James felt as though he might shatter into a thousand pieces, hot, needful, tightness, so very tight and tense within him. Everything snapped into focus for the barest moment, the scratch of the covers, the strands of blond hair sticking to Francis’ forehead, fingers clenching into James’ thigh, the twinge in his knee, the smell of the liniment underneath the bandage, all competing with Francis’ mouth and James’ cock, all present until-

“I’m, Francis, you’re going to-fuck!” James’ hips snapped up against Francis’ weight, the need having tightened to the breaking point, cracking open, James clinging to the sheets for dear life as he spent himself and road his climax to the end. His strength ebbing away, James wilted back into the bed. He tugged weakly at his linens, pulling them back up as he tried to catch his breath.

“Better?” Francis asked, his eyes mischievous.

James closed his eyes, drawing in a breath, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Don’t you dare say it James-”

“Why Francis,” James opened one eye. “It’s just what the doctor ordered.”


	7. The Silk Scarf

It started out, as it always seemed to, with a look.

Francis glanced up from his book. James was at the desk, studying the ledger. They had gotten another desk so that James could work in the guest room, but he still seemed to find himself at Francis’ instead.

“Everything is where I need it,” James had explained.

“Yes, because I spend a half-hour straightening it when you’re done. I simply do not understand your organizational methods, if such methods even exist.”

He was doing sums was Francis’ guess, James biting his lip in concentration, the glasses he now liked to use when his eyes began to tire perched on the end of his long nose. His brows furrowed, then relaxed as he made a few quick marks, studying what he’d written intently.

James was a comfort. The mad passion that had seized Francis when he’d pursued Sophia, that was not what he had here. Not that he didn’t love James fiercely and fully, and not that James didn’t have the capacity or inclinations to completely unmake Francis.

No. This was something altogether different. The fire was banked lower, less prone to flare and cause burns, yet it burned brighter, warm enough to fend off the worst of the unpleasant places his mind drifted to.

When was it, Francis wondered idly, that the fire had sparked? After the carnival? The long walk? Surely, as James had grown sicker, Francis spending any spare moment at his side in the makeshift bed. The rescue. The gnawing fear that it came too late for Commander Fitzjames. The blind joy at discovering it was not. The drifting apart, that amorphous dull pain.

And now here he was, whole. Mostly. Enough, enough that mattered, loving Francis in a way Francis could never have imagined, with a kind heart wrapped up in a most clever mind.

Such wild, improbable luck.

“Francis?”

He was brought back to the room.

“You’ve been staring at me,” James said, his head slightly cocked.

“Cannot I look upon you, James, without my motives being questioned?”

James blushed, looking down. “You look as though you were somewhere else though, somewhere very far away from here,” he replied.

“Was I?” Francis did not wish to burden James with his rather saccharine nostalgia. 

“Well. If you won’t tell me.” James turned back to the ledger, scratching something out with his pencil.

This would not do. Francis put the book down, crossing the room. Leaning down on one arm, he looked over James’ shoulder.

“James, these aren’t sums.”

“You’re right.” The page was covered with small drawings of a dark cat-shaped creature. “The sums are here.” James turned the page. They were indeed, with a collection of doodles next to them.

Francis rubbed his forehead, laughing. “You asked where I was. I was considering when I thought first that I felt something beyond friendly companionship with you and you, you’re using the ledger to draw the cat.”

James looked up, biting his lip in.

“She’s very amusing to draw and I don’t see what’s so funny,” he said, smiling.

Francis cupped James’ face with one hand, using the other to pluck the spectacles off before bending in to kiss him, softly, fitting his mouth to James’.

“Bed?” James whispered. Francis nodded in agreement.

Upstairs, Francis was on James, pushing him up against the door, hands nearly tearing his clothes off. James, het-up, fought against Francis’ clothing as well.

“Careful, the knee,” James said, his voice strained and heavy as Francis’ hands went to his trousers.

“Christ,” Francis mumbled as James ran his teeth from beneath his ear, down his neck to his collarbone. He was often the one directing the action, as it were, not that he would ever override James. This time, though, James was most certainly in charge, guiding him back to the bed and pushing him down.

“I will have you, Francis, and right now,” James said, straddling him like a horse and pinning his arms above his head. Francis struggled weakly. Good lord, was this what James felt? It was exhilarating.

“Yes,” he said softly.

James smiled wickedly, first removing Francis’ shirt, then pulling his own cravat off, wrapping it loosely around Francis’ wrists, his eyes widening as he sat back, biting the knuckle of his index finger.

“James, I would,” Francis looked away. “If you would indulge me.”

“More that I am now?”

“Yes. Well.” He coughed. “I would like to see what all the fuss is about.”

“The fuss…oh. Oh!” James’ eyes, if possible, opened even wider. “Oh.” He smiled toothily.

“Yes.”

“Mmmm. I’d love nothing more than to, ah, indulge you, Francis, but perhaps.” James stood, rummaging around in the wardrobe, emerging with a long silk scarf. “Wouldn’t want you tearing my cravat,” he said, replacing it with the scarf. “A favor from a lover a long time ago.”

“Hrmph.”

“If it helps, she would be utterly horrified at what I intend to use it for,” James said, tucking the ends in. “Not too tight?”

“She?” Francis tested the scarf. If he needed to get out, he could, but the bindings, oh, what was this feeling? Remarkable.

“Yes, Francis, you’re not the only one to know the company of women, though I do like you better. That was back when I thought it was terribly unnatural,” at this, James drew his hand dramatically to his nearly unbuttoned chest, “sinful, perverse, even, to want to touch a man that way. Now I am older and know better.” He pulled his shirt off, tossing it towards the headboard, grinning when Francis made a small noise of annoyance. 

He leaned in, his mouth hovering above Francis, his voice reedy and soft. “I need to get you ready. Can’t just rush to the main course.” Francis squirmed, thrusting his head up to brush his lips to James’. James darted away with a smirk, divesting Francis of the rest of his clothing.

“If you wish to stop, if this is less than enjoyable, you say so and we will. All right?”

“But you like this?” Francis asked. James pushed one of his legs up, slicking his fingers. Francis could feel one cool finger pressing below his cock.

“I do. Sometimes it helps if,” James bent down, taking Francis’ hardening cock into his mouth, the finger teasing at his entrance, pressing and slipping inside, Francis flinching up.

“All right?” James asked, his voice muffled against Francis’ thigh. He nodded. James smiled again, his lips openly and wetly pressing along the underside of Francis’ cock, his finger pushing in again, this time further. Francis wasn’t sure why James found this so thrilling. It felt unusual, but was Francis just-

“Ah!” A note of surprise escaped, unbidden, James twisting, was that two digits? Curling, oh, oh. Oh. _Oh.___

_ _“Francis?”_ _

_ _“Y-yes. What-”_ _

_ _James curled his fingers again, Francis’ thighs tensing and quivering. “Thought you might like that.”_ _

_ _Francis struggled against the wispy scarf. He was hard, so very, very hard._ _

_ _“Can I…” James’ fingers were out._ _

_ _“Please.”_ _

_ _“What was that?” James pulled his own trousers off, settling onto his knees, his eyes dark and heavy as one hand worked Francis’ cock. “You like this, don’t you?”_ _

_ _“Please, James.” Francis’ voice pitched higher that he intended. “Please, please don’t make me beg.”_ _

_ _“Oh, but I like it when you do.” James was slicking himself now, his hair falling into his eyes. He leaned forward, lining himself up with Francis. “Again, if it hurts,” he said. __

_ _ _ _“James if you don’t-” Francis sucked in his breath as James sank into him, that first push tight, uncomfortable, but then-_ _ _ _

__

__

_ _“Francis.” James was breathless, his face flush, color blooming across his chest, Francis’ eyes roving up and down that slender frame, the tensed muscles, his chest narrowing down to the trim hips, hips that were rolling slowly into him. “Is it, are you,” he let out a soft moan as he seated himself fully in Francis._ _

_ _Francis nodded, unable to for a coherent sentence. “Full,” he got out._ _

_ _“Yes,” James laughed, his voice cracking. “Good lord, is this,” he paused, pulling back out before thrusting again. “Every time? You’re like a furnace.” He was deep in Francis, who couldn’t concentrate on anything but James, lovely James, fucking him. James was pushing his thighs open, trying to get a better angle. He wanted James to touch him, needed James to drive into him, his hands still bound. Each move of his wrists against the scarf, soft though it was, was exquisite torture. His eyes focused on all the places he’d touch James if he could, the scar on his arm, the jut of his hipbone, the ends of that long hair where it was curling under. He’d dig his fingers into that muscled shoulder, pull him in close, run a thumb over James’ nipples, browned and hardened._ _

_ _The thrusts were coming more quickly, Francis groaning as each one hit somewhere inside, a spot of pleasure, threatening to burst his desire like a dam. _ _

_ _“James, please, you ruinous man,” he found himself pleading, James nodding, one hand roughly grasping Francis’ prick, timing it, or at least trying to, with his thrusts._ _

_ _“Francis, fuck, you’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful.” James was babbling, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. He gave a cry, bucking into Francis, coming hard, his entire body going rigid. Francis squirmed into the bedsheets as James’ hand pumped his cock, over, over, over until Francis groaned loudly, his muscles spasming as he came on James’ hand and himself, James giving a deep sigh as he slipped out._ _

_ _The scarf loosened as James tugged it free. James curled next to him, neither saying anything as their breathing slowed. Francis looked over. James had the scarf in his hands, running it over his fingers and rubbing the fabric carefully._ _

_ _“Hope you’ll let me do that again,” James said, smiling. “Watching you come apart like that. Begging.” He bit his lip. “And this little number.” He waved the scarf back and forth a few times._ _

_ _“You liked that rather too well,” Francis replied, relaxing into the pillow._ _

_ _“Was it good? I hope it was good. I did like very much doing that, er, to you. If you would like to do that again. If it was good.” James’ eyes were serious._ _

_ _Francis smiled, rolling onto his side, kissing James’ shoulder. “Very good. Exceptional. I expect nothing less from you.” He laughed. “I do believe I now understand the appeal.”_ _


	8. Christmas

Christmas was fast approaching, the weather very cold and wet. James’ leg was bothering him more, requiring that blasted cane for any outing these days. It was deeply upsetting, but he was not about to let it ruin the holidays.

“Should we, er, well, what should be do for Christmas?” James asked one evening after dinner. He’d taken a seat by the fire, letting the heat wash over his legs. 

Francis frowned, the way he did when James inadvertently touched upon a delicate subject. They had few secrets these day, though, Francis willing to share the less pleasant parts of his past with James.

“My father got drunk every Christmas and ruined it. Every year, without fail, so my mother would give out presents early. It was important to her, but then I left and fell away from the trappings of the season.” He looked expectantly at James.

“We celebrated every year. Trees, garlands, presents, carols.” James paused. “I say ‘we’ but the other children, they, ah. They never let me forget that I wasn’t really a part of the family. Always on the outside looking in.” He gave a bitter laugh.

“Would you like to celebrate?” Francis asked gently. He was focused on his book intently. “I’d like to think I’m your family now, James.”

“Francis Crozier, how is it that you are able to do so much with so few words?”

Francis stood, walking over to look James in the eye.

“I suspect it’s because of how close I hold you here.” Francis rested his fingers on his chest. “Now come to bed before you start accusing me of becoming, what was it you said, soft-hearted in my old age. You can plot decorations in the morning.”

\- - -

As it happened, Francis was out of town the week before Christmas. Thomas Blankey, former icemaster, had written.

“You don’t mind, do you? Thomas is one of my dearest friends, and travel during winter is difficult for him, with the leg.”

“He still has two legs, he’s just missing part of one.”

Francis shook his head, smiling. “Well, I hope you won’t mind me saying, it will give me more time to find a present for this man I know. I’m having a bit of difficulty, and he is just wonderful, and I would like it to be perfect, although I will settle for good.”

James kissed him.

“I’m sure he’ll love it. I’ll see you when you return.”

\- - -

Without Francis, the house was too empty, The Inkblot his only companion. He continued to go out for walks, turning down the other way towards the shops. James wasn’t the only one difficult to shop for. _What to get Francis?_ he pondered as he went store to store. He picked out some decorations, had fresh evergreens scheduled to be delivered. A book? No, Francis had so many and James didn’t trust himself with such a personal gift. Something to garden with? What would be a good present?

He stopped in front of a clothes store, one of his favorites from when he’d cared much more about the perfect set of his wavy hair and the shine on his boots.

Smiling, he went in.

\- - -

Francis was delayed, coming home on Christmas Eve. He’d written, so there was no surprise, but it was still the longest they’d been apart. James was only slightly embarrassed by how acutely he missed Francis, hurrying out to the entryway the moment he heard the key in the latch, throwing his arms around Francis, whose overcoat was cold and dusted with snow.

“Missed you,” he mumbled.

“Missed you too,” Francis said, holding him close for a solid minute. When they separated, Francis’ eyes were bright. “Happy Christmas Eve, darling.”

“How is Mr. Blankey?”

“As salty as ever. I’d forgotten how much he revels in making me laugh at the most vulgar tales.”

“Does he….” James gestured vaguely between himself and Francis before helping him out of his coat.

“Yes, he does. He’s one of the more astute people I’ve met. Made a very crude joke, but he’s happy. For me. For us. Said something about how it figured I’d end up with ‘pretty boy Fitzjames.’ Wants to borrow your hair tonic.”

James smiled. “I’m sure you told him I use no such thing, this hair is lovely all on its own. He would be most welcome, if he does ever think he can travel. The only man with a flair for storytelling that rivals mine.”

“Shall we stay up?” Francis asked.

“We are getting old and grey.”

“Speak for yourself, James.”

James felt his heart soften. He had missed this. The Inkblot was a poor conversationalist. “The bed’s been too big and empty without you, although you do like to take all the blankets.”

“Stealing blankets? James, if I don’t tamp them down, you roll yourself up into them like a pastry. Stealing blankets.”

James pointed out his additions to the house. “I decorated while you were away, I hope you don’t mind.” He rested his chin on one of Francis’ shoulders, his hand on the other.

“This is your home, too. You do not need my permission.” Francis’ eyes were wide, his face open with wonder as he took in the evergreen boughs, wrapped in red ribbon and tied to the bannister, the garlands, the holly leaves and berries.

“Poisonous to The Inkblot,” he said, pointing to the holly, “so they stay up high.”

Francis said nothing, letting James lead him into the library. There was a very small tree, decorated with ornaments, mostly handmade with paper.

“She thinks the decorations are toys and takes them all down every evening, so I’m glad I didn’t spend much on them.” Underneath the tree was a small parcel. _To Francis._

“Do you like it?” James asked. He’d done too much, hadn’t he? Too much, James. Francis would bear it with good cheer, but it was far too extravagant, and he wouldn’t be able to hide that grimace-

“I love it. James, the home is…it’s beautiful. It’s Christmas.” He laughed, looking around. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

James was a decorated Navy man. He did _not_ need anyone’s approval. But to see Francis, his face marveling at the house, the years melting away, was a gift. It stayed with him all evening, even as sleep claimed him, Francis’ arm slipping around his waist under the covers.

\- - -

It snowed all night, transforming the yard into a land of white icy nothingness.

“Does it bother you? We can draw the curtains,” Francis asked.

“No. For one, the house doesn’t reek of lamp oil and unwashed men.” James shivered. “And for two, I’m much warmer.”

“Here. Open mine first.” Francis handed him a box held close with blue twine, seating himself on the floor in front of the chaise where James was currently ensconced, an extra blanket across his legs. James fingered the twine, pursing his lips.

“Best I could do on short notice. I was not intending to remind you of the soup. Go on.” Francis was smiling, but his eyes were full of worry. It was deeply charming.

The string came loose with a tug, James opening the box. There lay a small notebook and a set of pencils.

“So that you don’t keep using the ledger as your own personal artist’s pad,” Francis said. James ran his fingers over the paper. This had not been cheap. The box was still heavy, something else wrapped up carefully. He pulled apart the packing paper, fingers finding cold metal.

A spyglass. One for his very own. He extended it, looking around the room.

“Don’t know what you’ll use it for now.”

“Spy on you when you’re gardening,” James said. He closed it. How could Francis say he was difficult to get a present for? “Francis. I love it. Truly. Thank you.” He looked back down at the notebook, grinning. He might even attempt to draw Francis in secret.

James reached over for the other parcel, his joy at the gifts shriveling up. Francis was going to hate it. It was stupid. Francis had gotten him excellent gifts, and here he was with this…God. It was all wrong, all so wrong. What had he been thinking? James tried very hard to keep his face from showing any of this. Couldn’t even shop for Francis without making an absolute fool of himself.

“Give it here.” Francis took the parcel, James dying a bit on the inside. He was going to hate it, James just knew it. Francis’ fingers tore open the paper.

On top was a journal.

“I thought you could write more. Your other travels, maybe notes on the garden.”

Francis’ eyes had a soft quality. Emboldened, James continued. “I liked what you wrote before. Wouldn’t mind terribly reading more of it.” Francis blushed, setting the journal aside.

Underneath was a new waistcoat, navy velvet with gold buttons, the stitching a complementary royal blue, fully lined with cream-colored silk.

“Oh,” was the only thing Francis said, an “oh” of surprise and marvel and delight. His hands ran over the velvet, touching the buttons reverently.

“Now that is not for gardening in. Do you hear me, Francis Crozier?” Francis nodded, continuing to look at the vest. “Do you like it?"

“I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated your eye for beauty. Thank you, James.”

The tight worry that had settled in James’ head evaporated. Of course he’d liked it. Francis took one last look at it before setting it aside.

“Your leg?” Francis asked.

“As good as can be. Come here.”

Francis stood, settling down on the chaise with James, putting his head on James’ chest as James pulled the blanket over both of them.

“Is your mood improved?” James asked.

“Still not sleeping terribly well, although better than before your arrival.” He turned his head, finding a more comfortable spot. “Not entirely where I feel I should be. But most certainly improved.”

James wrapped an arm around Francis. “I know, at least when I am particularly low, sometimes I can have pleasurable days, enjoyment that punctuates my poor mood,” he said. “And…again, I do not wish to assume, but in my experience, while it does not undo entirely the unpleasantness, it is a good reminder that it will end. And it will, Francis. I promise you it will.”

“It is good to be reminded. The decorations, the tree, it has helped immensely.” 

“Well, you must know you are at the very heart of my affections. You and The Inkblot. And my waistcoats.”

Francis laughed. “You could just say you love me,” he said.

“Ahhh, but I have a flair for the dramatic and a reputation to uphold.”

“How did I, hmm.” Francis murmured, an arm curling into James’ chest. James took it, opening it and kissing the palm.

“End up with me? A blessing from the Almighty, clearly.”

“Yes, clearly,” Francis said dryly.

The Inkblot had come up to the chaise. She made a peeping noise, looking at James, jumping up and trodding across Francis’ back before curling up on James’ shoulder. 

“Happy Christmas, James. You’ve made it wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” Francis closed his eyes, one arm up around James’ unoccupied shoulder, James’ heart feeling very full indeed.

“Happy Christmas, Francis.”

How could he have ever thought Francis wouldn’t like his present or the decorations? Hang his blasted leg and Francis’ low spirits. Christmas was a time of miracles, and their home was rich in unexpected ones.

Outside, it began to snow again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to leave these sweet sad sea bois alone.
> 
> Title (and series name) is from Northwest Passage by Stan Rogers, which, again, I cannot recommend The Very Best of Stan Rogers enough as it's got the highest boat song to non-boat song ratio.
> 
> I am on twitter for some damn reason - kiingboooo (that's two i's), come say hi!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
